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A lot of you have asked how the babymoon went, and I’m happy to report that it was 100% blissful. Even the Batman marathon. Though, I admit, I wasn’t exactly conscious through the entire thing. Here’s a (very grainy and dark) shot of me enjoying a nap between movies. And yes, that’s me laying on the disgusting carpet of the Fremont Theater.

Lately, people have been so nice to me. Really. They tell me I look beautiful, compliment my growing belly, smile, and hold the door open for me much longer than is necessary. Their kindness, I can tell, is completely involuntary, giving me hope for the future of the human race.

There’s just one slight problem. They often ask me “How are you feeling?”

I want to glow. I want to grin and say, “Terrific!” and keep the conversation moving. But I just can’t. Because, truth is, I am in utter agony most of the time.

At last count, I’ve gained 28 pounds since conception of this new baby, and thought that’s an enviable weight gain at 7.5 months pregnant, my body is crumbling under the weight. For a while, I would take hour-long walks to keep the gestational diabetes – and cabin fever – at bay. But lately, I haven’t been able to muster it. My legs won’t lift to take the next step, so I sort of shuffle like an old man. Plus there’s the threat that I’ll soil myself along the way – which *has* happened, friends. Without antihistimines to curb my allergies, a sneeze is a constant, imminent threat to my dignity, not to mention my pants.

And then there’s the pressure.

Look, I’m not going to sugar-coat it. I gave birth to a big kid just two years ago. My body never snapped back entirely from the trauma of pushing a 9-pound Seabass out. Hence, with a whole new sack of potatoes bearing down on my “parts,” there is a good amount of discomfort and fear that I will split wide open and give birth every time I so much as sit on a toilet. Plus, there’s my bottom. I will not give details (you’re welcome) but suffice it to say that I’m consuming my legal limit of All Bran cereal.

Oh, and I think easing down into the seat of a car without shedding a tear or breaking a sweat should be considered an Olympic event. Just a suggestion.

And here is a shot of me golfing on the babymoon. Feel free to comment on my form. And then shove it.

There are other things. The nightly back spasms if I’ve picked Seabass up more than three times all day. The chafing of my thighs. (I actually Googled “help with inner thigh chafing” and came across this post on “The Big Girl Blog:” Prevent Inner Thigh Chafing – No More Chub Rub!) Oh, and I’m exhausted all the freaking time, but I can’t sleep.